Eurostar
by Dantooine Zennys
Summary: Temporarily without the TARDIS, Ten has to take a rather different form of high-speed transport...


_**Disclaimer: Doctor Who and all related materials are the property of the BBC. I own nothing belonging to the BBC. In addition this story is not intended to defame anyone connected with the Eurostar Group or its passengers. To those who have never ridden the trains, please be aware that the First Class service is nowhere near as elitist as it is represented here. (I am speaking from experience). This is a work of parodic fiction, and is not meant to be taken seriously.**_

_**When I started writing this in March 2009 it was intended to be a multi-chaptered story. However, I recently decided to convert it into a humorous one shot. Remember to read and review!**_

**Eurostar**

The steward had his doubts about the passenger in seat 42.

Both men were aboard a sleek Eurostar train, travelling from Brussels to St. Pancras on a pleasant sunny morning in the middle of August. The hills of Belgium rolled past, quietly allowing the train access through its land. After the train bounced slightly over a bump in the tracks a well-dressed Chinese man looked up from his paper and glared at the steward. The attendant was abashed by the admonition and tried to look apologetic. The Chinaman frowned and returned his gaze to the pink pages of the _Financial Times_.

The steward sighed and knew he shouldn't have been surprised at the gentleman's hauteur. This was, after all, First Class, and not just _any_ First Class, but the most expensive seats money could buy. Here, mahogany armrests and cases of Mouton Rothschild were supplied not as luxuries, but as the bare minimum. The crème de la crème of the world's wealthiest spheres had come here, coifed in high-end tailoring, thoroughly expecting an opulent release from the ghastly hustle and bustle of August 2011. They had come in_ their best_to expect _the best._

So what was the man in seat 42 doing here? He looked terribly out of place. His clothes were too informal, his manners unrefined. Only the gravitas of a certain name had kept him aboard, but it did not silence the steward's protests. He remembered with displeasure their first meeting on the platform that morning:

_Eyebrows were raised as the outlandishly-dressed gentleman joined the queue for the First Class carriages. Donned in a tan overcoat and faded jeans, unkempt brown locks peering over his brow, the steward had dearly wanted to turn him away. But that wasn't company policy; not since the Belgian Finance Minister had been thrown off the previous year for wearing tracksuit bottoms. With the memory of this incident in mind, the steward tried (unsuccessfully) to rein in his prejudices towards the strange individual. The steward's dislike increased further when the gentleman reached the front of the queue. He looked about thirty-five and was annoying handsome. His accent was British; the steward couldn't place it exactly, but its inflection reminded him of a character in a rowdy soap opera he had once seen on the BBC. Was the man a denizen of Birmingham, perhaps?_

_Leaning into the carriage, the strange man flashed up a leather wallet. The ID card slotted into the laminated pocket read "Carlton Chase, son of Franklin Chase, you know, the big pharmaceutical kingpin with dozens of companies situated in all four corners of the world. And lawyers." The steward shifted uncomfortably but questioned the matter no further. He then asked to see the man's ticket, which brought about a fair bit of fumbling before the man produced it, from the heel of his left shoe, no less. To the attendant's chagrin, no amount of intense scrutiny could make the ticket invalid. The steward then yanked a thumb in the direction of seat 42, before gruffly dealing with the next passenger. Out of the corner of his eye the steward swore he could see Chase look back at his wallet and baulk slightly, as if he was surprised at what it said on his card._

After the train disembarked things only got worse. When refreshments were offered Chase turned down an offer of the finest champagne available in favour of cola. Too stunned to protest, the steward headed down to the lesser compartments of the train, procured a can from the buffet car and returned to First Class, holding the container at arm's length all the way. Chase accepted it with surprising civility, but the politeness wasn't enough to allay the steward's growing disdain for the man. The exertion Chase had put him through! All because he was too proud, or too stupid to accept the bottle in front of him! The steward's indignation began to overcome him. Suddenly he had the wild idea of pulling the emergency brake and forcibly throwing Chase off the train there and then. Yet he managed to calm himself by counting to ten and reminding himself of the man's heritage: Chase Pharmaceuticals. The sixth-largest company in the world. Offices and outlets in over one-hundred countries. The steward found his heart rate returning to its normal pace, and breathing became easier. Once again he was amazed at the palliative power of capitalism. Perhaps it was the panacea that the ancients had craved? Pushing thoughts of the odd man out of his mind, the steward began to serve caviar to the other passengers.

Before long, however, he found his thoughts returning to the man in seat 42. Was he an imposter? The ID could easily have been forged, and Chase Pharmaceuticals was a huge conglomerate well-known to the public and fraudsters alike. On the other hand, if 'Chase' had snuck onboard using such dishonest means, why had he seemed surprised at what it said on his ID? Had he not written it himself?

The steward shook his head. He was thinking about this too much. Did he really want to risk a lawsuit if he confronted the fellow? No, he decided, just let him be peculiar. After all, it was quite possible that 'Carlton Chase' was who he said he was, and was therefore a very rich man. Ergo, he had _carte blanche _to drink as many cans of saccharine, consumerist junk as he deigned to do. There was too great a risk, the steward decided, in exposing an imposter who might actually be completely genuine. The attendant went over to seat 46 and handed caviar to an important Swiss banker whose name he had forgotten. From a peripheral view he could see Chase hold something up to his eye level and examine it. The object was about the size and shape of a lipstick, made of some chrome-like material and topped off with a small blue dome. The steward wondered if it was some sort of laser pointer. Before the steward could get any closer Chase, as if sensing he was being watched*, stowed the strange item into his coat pocket. He looked around suspiciously, and the steward averted his gaze. It was then that the attendant made up his mind. He had a job to do, and he was paid well enough for doing it. As a First Class steward he had better things to do than ruminate on the bizarre antics of the unlikely sons of business moguls. And it was only a few hours until St. Pancras.

_*indeed 'Chase' was being watched, by the vicious Time Hyenas of Bruges. _


End file.
